


The Spider in West Egg

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Alternate Universe - The Great Gatsby Fusion, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, Villain Johnny Storm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 22:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17712710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Peter Parker lives a quiet life in West Egg except for two facts: 1) he's actually a vigilante, fighting gangsters in his free time and 2) he lives next door to one of the most infamous gangster families in the city. But he has it all balanced until one day he gets invited to a party, and pulled into the life of one Johnny Storm.





	The Spider in West Egg

A knock on the door. Rare. Peter frowned as he put down the book he was reading and headed towards the door. That could mean a couple different things. It could be someone from work, ready to hound him about the poor quality of the last batch of photographs—or possibly to tell him they weren’t running them because of mob interference. It could be his old friend Reed, trying to loop him into some science experiment (like he had time for any of those these days). Or it could possibly (and this was what he was hoping for) be Mary Jane Watson. She didn’t come to visit him often, too busy with her job as a nightclub singer and her busy social life. But when she did, he was always glad to see her.

He opened the door.

It was a man in a blue suit—the kind of suit that looked less like a real outfit and more like a neat uniform. With a slight bow he handed Peter an envelope.

Peter frowned. “Are you the new mail man?” he asked. His voice came out raspy. He hadn’t been talking all day, and last night he’d been up late patrolling in the cold.

“No, sir,” the man said respectfully. “I work for the Storms.”

The Storms. Peter examined the envelope apprehensively. Now that he mentioned it, it was made of peculiarly nice paper, and there was wax sealing it with an insignia. His spider-sense wasn’t going off, at least, so they probably hadn’t figured out his identity. But what could the Storms, a family with some of the most criminal ties in New York, want with a humble reporter?

He opened it.

“Dear Mr. Parker,

The honor would be entirely ours if you would attend our little party this Sunday night.

Sincerely,

Susan and Jonathan Storm.”

Peter read the note through about six times before looking back at the man who had delivered it. His spider-sense still wasn’t tingling. While it sometimes failed to work from a distance, he couldn’t believe they would try to ambush him at one of their own parties, which would have such a crowd attending.

“They want me to come to the party Sunday?” he asked the man.

The man nodded. “May I have a response to deliver?”

No one, but no one, got an actual invitation to a Storm party. Everyone showed up, but no one was invited. It was also a hotbed for criminals, especially bootleggers—not the kind of place Peter would usually want to go without a mask on.

It would be suspicious to refuse. He had to find out what they wanted.

“Of course I’ll come,” he said. Before the man could leave, he asked, “Wait! Uh, is it fancy dress? Do you know why they invited me?”

Damn his priorities.

“The Storms are very neighborly people,” the man said. “Wear whatever you want. It’s about having a good time.”

A good time. Right. Peter swallowed. Well, the spider would have to test his luck in someone else’s web. Maybe it actually would be something innocent, though he doubted it. Whatever occurred, it would be a good story for Mary Jane.

* * *

When Peter finally managed to buy himself the small cottage on West Egg, he figured he was moving up in the world. Of course, he’d already been living in New York. All his life he’d been a Brooklyn kid, living with his aunt and uncle in the same little house, in a fairly good neighborhood even. They weren’t bad off and they weren’t involved with any particular mob, which was more than a lot of people could say.

(Of course, Peter was involved with the mob in a way, if you counted frequent fist fights and shoot outs while wearing a costume like a circus freak being involved…but that was different, and a subject for another time.)

He would have been content to stay there except that after Uncle Ben died, Aunt May decided she was going to move out to the country. And the house which he had always loved seemed very empty with the both of them gone. Empty, and haunted by memories of Uncle Ben who had been shot there by a gang enforcer. He stayed there a year for Mary Jane. Then she became a club singer and moved into an apartment on the other side of the city, and he found himself short on reasons to stay.

There was the fact that it was conveniently located for crime fighting. But transportation was hardly an issue when he could swing between buildings, or even catch rides on top of a car. And he’d been craving a change for a while now.

So he looked around for real estate and found the cottage and bought it with the money Uncle Ben had left him and Aunt May. And that was the end of his life in the little house in Brooklyn.

He could say not much changed.  He still worked for the Bugle, and he still spent nearly every night out fighting crime and preventing violence in a city where the pace was manic and booze flooded the streets. Except now he had to be careful to change before getting home, because there was one change in his life, and that was the Storms.

His next door neighbors.

Admittedly, when he first bought the cottage he’d been considering it might be advantageous if he ever had to check up on the Storms’ violent activities. They headed one of the biggest gangs in New York, wielded massive influence and had a mysterious enforcer named the Torch who had powers to rival Peter’s own. (An enforcer who many said was Johnny Storm himself, not that anyone could see a face through all that flame.) But although he often had the feeling they were watching him through their latticed windows, he saw next to nothing of the Storms themselves, and certainly no suspicious behavior. The only evidence he had that they were truly living in the mansion next door was that every Sunday night hundreds of guests would show up and then leave in the early morning hours. And of course everyone knew about the Storm parties. He had never considered his biggest problem with the Storms would be that they kept him from getting any sleep before he had to go in Monday for work.

But no one ever got invited to Storm parties. And here he had an invitation. He, not Spider-Man, but Peter Parker.

For three days before the party he grew more and more paranoid. What if the Torch had figured Spider-Man out? They’d fought in the past, though with no conclusive winner. What if it really was an ambush, even with all the guests there? What if the Storms were planning some sort of mass slaughter? What if they had found evidence of his identity and were going to release it to the public?

What if his suit was too old and shabby and he looked like an idiot?

Well, he only had the one suit. And he had his spider-sense to back him up on the rest. He would just have to take the risk and deal with the fallout.

* * *

The party was crowded. Crowded. Peter was beginning to realize the whole “rely on his spider-sense” thing was going to be hopeless. It generally went off around guns, people with violent intent, people with secrets or malice against him or Spider-Man, suspicious situations. Currently, it was consistently ringing at about forty things at once, and it was impossible for him to figure out what any of its signals meant. He was sure some of these people had guns on them, and probably a lot of them were the Storms’ men and associates. But if there was any immediate danger, it was lost in the buzz of a dangerous crowd full of barely restrained passions that surged this way and that. A fist fight started in a corner and was broken up within minutes. Two women were yelling at each other, and one grabbed the other’s hair. Everyone seemed to be holding a glass of champagne or bourbon or whiskey and swigging it down like hogs, and the air stunk of alcohol and sweat. The piano was screaming jazz. At least eight men were singing along to it and he couldn’t figure out which one the actual performer was—or if the piano was actually supposed to be playing solo.

Deep breaths. One two three. One two three. One two three…

He didn’t see Mary Jane here, which was something of a relief. He’d heard she came some nights, and he’d at first thought it might be good if he could spot her. But in this crowd he wouldn’t be able to talk to her without hollering and she’d probably drag him out because she’d know him well enough to tell he was on the verge of a panic attack.

Someone grabbed his elbow and his buzzing spider sense shrieked. He spun around, knocking the hand away, read to kick or punch or claw his way away from the perpetrator. His hazy eyes zeroed in on the culprit easily—the man already had his hands in the air defensively. But he was laughing, albeit a little nervously.

“Hey,” the man said. “Calm down, Parker. I won’t hurt you.”

Blond, with an obnoxious jaw-line and blue eyes and a bright blue suit, a lapel pin shaped like a flame. Peter drew in a deep breath again. Johnny Storm. He hadn’t seen the face in person before but it was in the news often enough to recognize it. Mob prince, baby-faced and brutal, quick with a gun and quick with his mind. He’d ruined lives with his gang’s robberies, murders and arsons, and he’d just ruined Peter’s too, because seeing him face to face and hearing his voice had just confirmed two things:

Number one, he was definitely the Torch. No doubt about it. Even with the crowd roaring all around them, Peter could recognize that voice anywhere. And the lapel pin sort of clinched it.

Number two, without the fire surrounding him he was probably the hottest man Peter had ever seen.

“Hey. You awake?”

Peter blinked. Johnny had started waving a hand in front of his face. With a grimace he hoped vaguely resembled a smile he said, “I’m Peter Parker. Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, I knew your name. Come on. Let’s get somewhere more private, it’s too loud here. Sit down.” He pulled Peter over to a table that was still half inhabited, and with a pointed look sent its inhabitants scattering. With a wave of his hand he summoned a man with a tray of glasses. “You don’t have anything to drink.” He took two glasses down and handed one to Peter.

Peter smiled nervously. “I don’t drink.”

“Don’t be shy. Everyone drinks here—no one’s going to care.” Johnny winked. “But I guess you don’t get out much for a reporter. This is vermouth—”

“Which is still illegal even if it has a fancy name. I’m sorry but your smile just isn’t good enough to make me break the law, even if you have good taste in suits.”

Johnny stared at him.

Peter gulped. It was much too easy to drop into snarking around the Torch. But this was Johnny right now, not the Torch. And he was being Peter Parker, not Spider-man.

Johnny coughed. “Drinking alcohol is still legal.” Oh good, he was going to focus on the legal aspect, not on the part about suits.

“It would support an illegal industry.”

“That depends on how you see things.”

“You’re a bootlegger so I’m not sure I want to see from your point of view.”

“And you’re a nosy reporter. I have evidence for my claim, you don’t, so just take a glass of wine and let down your hair for a minute.” Johnny picked up his own glass and took a gulp. “You know, your paper doesn’t give a damn about bootlegging so I’m not sure what you’ve come storming in to prove.” He winked. “If anyone, I should be the one doing the storming…”

Peter groaned.

The Torch made a lot of fire related puns whenever they fought. Apparently it was not only his habit when he was in costume, but in everyday life too. This evening was just going to get worse.

Johnny seemed pleased at his reaction. He nudged the glass towards Peter. “So do you like the party?”

“I haven’t been able to sleep through a Sunday night once this summer.”

“You should have come over. Who needs sleep?”

“I don’t like parties.”

“Well, why’d you come over now then? No one asked you.”

Peter looked at Johnny very pointedly.

“Oh, right. We did ask you.”

Peter’s spider-sense was still grumbling. It didn’t like Johnny. Usually a conversation with the Torch would already have resulted in at least some minor scorching. Not to mention another brawl had started on the other side of the room, and Peter had to physically fight the urge to go over, break it up and then bring everyone involved to the nearest police station because he was ninety percent sure they were all at the very least robbers or blackmailers or something…bad. Bad men, yes.

(If he did take them in they’d probably be released in less than a day because of corruption even with evidence he didn’t have. The city was a mess.)

“Look, Parker,” Johnny said. “My sister and I want to be neighborly. We think you seem like an interesting guy and maybe we should hang out some time. Just swim in our pool, go for a drive in the Fantasticar—it’s newly painted yellow and faster than you’d believe—check out some restaurants. You reporter types go for new experiences. We could have a lot of fun.”

“Neighborly. After four months.”

“Well, you know how busy it gets when you’re a Storm.” Johnny winked.

“Why do you keep winking?”

“Me? Winking?” Johnny blinked emphatically and said, “Anyways. Your life is clearly boring so from now on, I will be your best friend.” He held up a hand as Peter began to protest. “This is not something to complain about, I am amazing and gorgeous and frankly much better than you deserve.”

Peter’s best friend was already Mary Jane, who was actually much better than he deserved. But it probably wasn’t worth an argument about that.

“I have things to do,” he said instead. “I probably won’t be seeing much of you, I just came tonight…”

“We’ll go out in the hydroplane on Tuesday,” Johnny said decisively. “Clear your schedule. You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to but there will definitely be champagne.” He clapped Peter on the back and stood. “Excuse me, I have to see to the other guests.”

* * *

Peter had planned on ignoring the comment about the hydroplane—and about friendship—but when another invitation arrived the next day, this one reminding him about the hydroplane on Tuesday, he decided it might be good to gain some counsel.

Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

“You have reached Mary Jane Watson, what’s the jazz?”

“It’s Peter.”

“Oh hey Peter. How are you? How’s your aunt doing these days? Have you heard from her lately?”

“Fine. I think Johnny Storm might be planning to kill me.”

“Whoa, slow down. Why? You don’t even know him. Oh my God, did you take incriminating photos? I thought you were focusing on vigilantes these days—Spider-Man, I mean.”

“No incriminating photos. I mean, I wish. They’re very good at hiding their tracks. But I went to one of his parties last night and I insulted him and called him a bootlegger. I’m pretty sure that’s grounds for murder in that crowd.”

“Why did you call him a bootlegger?”

“Well, he is one. Might as well call a spade a spade.”

“Sure, but you aren’t exactly…why were you at one of his parties in the first place? Didn’t you say once that they were a hellhole of crime and corruption and the Storms were terrible people in general?”

Peter rubbed his neck. “Yes, well, it’s too late now. He asked me to meet him alone on a hydroplane. Do you think he’s going to dump me over the side once we’re in the water?” Peter could definitely swim back to land no matter how far out they went—he had the endurance for quite a lot of swimming—but it was entirely possible Johnny might knock him over the head or stab him first and even though he could defend himself it was something of a risk. He didn’t like it.

“He asked to meet you alone on a hydroplane.”

“He said we’re going to be best friends now.” Peter couldn’t hold back some sarcasm at that.

“That does sound pretty bad. But wouldn’t it be easier to send someone over to shoot you? He could burn your house down more easily than that.”

This, Peter had to admit, was true.

“Well, if he’s planning on killing you, I don’t think avoiding him is going to help. And it would be pretty damn rude, honestly. If you don’t want to give him any more reasons to kill you.”

“So I should go and risk it.”

“Probably. Look, if things get bad tell him you have an exposé written up that will go to print if you don’t stop it. That should help.”

“I don’t have an exposé.”

“Honey. You lie.”

 “Well, it’s better than nothing. Thanks, Mary Jane.”

“No problem. Hey, you’ll have to let me know what it’s like hanging with Johnny Storm. I’ve been to his parties but seeing him personally, alone? That’s something different. I want to hear all about it.”

“He’s a criminal mastermind.”

“He’s a rich bachelor. If you want to introduce us…”

“Goodbye, Mary Jane.”

“Fine. Goodbye.”

* * *

As it turned out, the hydroplane ride was completely peaceful—if you didn’t count Johnny’s obnoxiously brilliant smile and terrible jokes to be a form of violence. Peter tried not to insult him too much, which was easier than one would have expected because they could barely hear each other in the hydroplane and Johnny in an effort to be horribly friendly had to yell over the engine, which gave Peter a sense of vicious satisfaction.

Afterwards Johnny seemed thoroughly worn out, as Peter would have been if not for his powers of endurance. He acted as if he were as tired as Johnny or more, and Johnny seemed pleased with that. He threw an arm around Peter as he walked him back to his house, insisting that he should even though it was right next door—after all, it was a dangerous city, criminals all over the place.

 “Well, if you told me there was currently a criminal between my house and yours, I’d have to agree,” Peter said with a sigh as they crossed over to his yard.

“You liked going out in the hydroplane today.”

Peter rolled his eyes. He had liked it, actually. Of course his spider-sense had been annoyed at sitting so close to Johnny, but the water and speed had been nice, and he’d never been on anything so expensive before. Reed had taken him out in an experimental motorboat called the Richards Engine but that had been a disaster. Peter had thrown up twice, and he liked to think he had a steady stomach for the most part. How Richards had managed to stay cheerful the entire time (“Well, with just a few adjustments I’m sure it will be fine, Peter”) was beyond him.

“And you liked my company,” Johnny said. “Mm? Mm? Admit it, I’m growing on you. We’re best friends now.”

“I have a best friend.”

“Does your best friend take you out on hydroplanes? And if not, are they really a best friend? I don’t think so, Parker. I don’t think so.”

Mary Jane would never be able to afford anything like that on a singer’s money. It would be more likely for Peter to take her somewhere nice—as he did, on occasion. But he didn’t argue it.

“Seriously though, if necessary I can buy them off,” Johnny said. “I can buy the position of Parker’s best friend from them. Or I can bribe you to like me more. Whichever you prefer.”

“Eight thousand dollars,” Peter improvised.

Johnny winced. With a cringing smile he said, “Why would you need eight thousand dollars? You don’t have any huge debts.”

“I was joking. How do you know about my financial situation?”

“I don’t. It was a guess.”

Peter squinted at him.

“And look at you, an upstanding member of society. Why would you have any debts? You’re a good man, an intellectual with nothing to hide,” Johnny said. “Although, if you want to stop being such an upstanding member of society, there is a certain position I can offer you. I have connections…”

“You are the connection,” Peter said. “And no thanks.” Why was this man so interested in him?

“Okay then. Independent man. I can respect that.” They had arrived at Peter’s door. “So you’re coming to our party next Sunday, right?”

“I have work to do. I can’t always be going to parties or going out on hydroplanes.”

“Sunday is a day of rest.”

“And not one to be spent drinking illegal substances.”

“Illegal substances? Us? Pfft.” Johnny laughed. “It will be alcohol-free, just for you. Just come. I can introduce you to people your feeble reporter mind has only ever dreamed of.”

It was probably a bad thing that Peter actually found that offer somewhat tempting. The people at Johnny’s parties… well, half of them were criminals but they were still bigger than his civilian identity would ever be. He licked his lips. “How about your sister?”

Johnny raised his eyebrows. “Why, you got an interest?”

Sue Storm. She was famous for being the one to accumulate the Storm fortune, though there were mixed rumors about how she had made it so big—and none of them implied legal or orthodox means. In the past few years, however, she was rarely seen by any but a chosen few. The media called her the Invisible Woman—the unseen force behind the Storm empire.

You could say Peter had a professional interest in her. In seeing her behind bars.

“You might see her,” Johnny said with an enigmatic smile. “If you’re a very good boy and promise to be on your best behavior. See you Sunday!”

See Sue Storm, hm? Now that seemed ominous. And extremely unlikely.

Peter watched Johnny run all the way back to his house before going inside and calling up Mary Jane to tell her how it went. Probably he needed at the very least to reassure her he was still alive.

* * *

As it turned out, Peter saw Johnny before Sunday. Or rather, Spider-Man saw the Torch.

He didn’t know why it surprised him so much. The Torch tended to make an appearance at least once a week, either kidnapping someone or threatening someone or burning down a building. So far he’d drawn a line at murder—there were other, less important enforcers for that—but Peter didn’t take any chances. When he saw the first sign of the Torch, he always got moving, and ready for a fight.

He’d been having better luck lately. He’d modified his webbing to resist flames better—now it took the Torch a couple seconds to break out of them because he had to turn up the heat further than his natural state. And he’d made himself some better heat resistant gloves so he could punch the Torch without giving himself third-degree burns.

The gloves were new. He’d been very excited about using them when he first obtained them. He’d fantasized about the sound the Torch would make when he finally punched the bastard right in the face, straight through the shielding flame that usually kept him at a distance, trying to hit the man with boards and beams and webbing and never actually touching, never able to manhandle the son of the bitch the way he wanted to when he brought out that mocking voice that always got to Peter within seconds.

Now, though. For some reason Peter’s enthusiasm had chilled.

He landed a punch on the Torch’s gut when he dared to get close enough, and the Torch did grunt heavily. But Peter found himself wincing in sympathy. It sounded painful. Which was the point, obviously. Only… and then he was dodging fireballs because the Torch had gotten some proper distance and was now throwing them in vengeance.

Peter’s presence in these fights usually made the property damage worse than the Torch’s arson would have caused in the first place. The fire brigade hated him. He tried not to think about this.

He dodged the fireballs, barely managing to avoid them all. Chased after the Torch, who seemed to think now was the time to make his escape. Probably the building he’d been targeting was already ashes by now but Peter didn’t care—the guy needed to get caught. He needed to go down. And Peter was hot on his trail—and yes, when he used puns they were justified, okay? Okay.

He finally managed to web the Torch to a wall—the Torch had been dodging all the webbing so far but everyone’s luck ran out eventually. He immediately scrambled up the wall and ended up beside the Torch, who was having trouble burning it off. Seeing Peter by his side he tensed and leaned away slightly, as much as he could move with almost his entire body encased in webbing.

Burning hotter than he was already took a lot of concentration, Peter knew. Concentration Peter could probably break with a couple blows to the head, which might leave him dizzy enough to be dragged down to the police station—or even to let go of his flame entirely and reveal him as Johnny Storm. There were enough people watching below that it could be a disaster for the Storms were that to happen.

It was hard to tell through the flame, but he thought Johnny looked nervous.

“You upgraded your equipment,” Johnny said. “Was it for me? You shouldn’t have.”

“Well, if I didn’t get you something nice once in a while you might think I’d stopped caring,” Peter said. But he wasn’t focused on what he was saying. It was the first time he’d gotten this close to the Torch while he was aflame—being with Johnny didn’t count, that was an entirely different, nonviolent set of circumstances—and it was odd. Up close one became more aware that this was an actual human being on fire. The rushing heat was almost dizzying, and it distorted the air between them in mirage-like waves. There was a scent of fire, but not like wood burning—something more chemical, like the smell that time when someone spilled alcohol in the streets and set it on fire and Peter had to simultaneously put out the fire and reassure the man who started it that he wasn’t going to take him to jail.

The smell, the heat…it was all very distracting. But the voice was the same. The voice that had mocked him through every fight they had ever fought, the voice of his next door neighbor.

“Next time you want to impress me, just bring me flowers,” Johnny said. His voice was strained. He was beginning to burn more brightly, sending tendrils of smoke up from the webbing. “I like tulips but will make do with roses.”

“Why go cheap?” Peter said. “Gift-wrapping you as a whole is much more personal.” He stepped back as the Torch began to burn through the web in earnest. Probably too hot now to punch. He’d missed the opportunity.

Well, it would have been hard to carry someone that hot very far anyhow.

“Well, I guess this is it for today,” he said. “This is a warning. Don’t go burning buildings down again. Thanks. Bye.”

And with a quick bow he swung off before Johnny could get fully free and start throwing fire at him again.

* * *

Peter bought Johnny red tulips for the party. The butler took all gifts at the door, so it got shuffled off before he even got to the foyer. This was probably for the best—it would be better if Johnny didn’t even find out they were from him, honestly. He might connect the tulips with what he had said to Spider-Man and that could make things quite bad.

But it would have been rude to show up for the second party with no gift. He hadn’t brought anything to the first either, and he did like to be a gracious guest.

Johnny somehow managed to find him within minutes again, but this time, after encouraging Peter to drink and accepting it ruefully when Peter declined, he pulled Peter out of the main rooms and off into a mostly deserted hall.

His face had become surprisingly grave.

He figured it out, Peter thought. He figured it out and now he was going to pull Peter into a quiet corner and shoot him. Mary Jane’s suggestion—that he mention an impending article—was on the tip of his tongue, but he waited. Maybe that wasn’t what this was. He could be patient for just a couple minutes longer. In any case, his spider sense wasn’t going any crazier than it usually did around Johnny in civvies so he was probably wrong. Probably.

Johnny stopped walking outside a closed door. He opened it and gestured for Peter to enter.

Peter walked in.

They were in a library. Bookcases almost to the ceiling full of books both old and new, well bound and smelling of thick paper. He inhaled and shakily exhaled. Okay, probably not a shooting—no one would risk getting blood on these books. Alternative hypothesis: Johnny Storm had fallen deeply in love with him and was trying to court him with books, and it was working.

Then someone coughed. He turned.

On the other end of the library, a woman was sitting in an armchair. A peculiar woman—most of the women at the party were flappers, dressed in their best gowns and jewels, flaunting legs and necklines that dropped down to almost reveal their tiny breasts. The kind of women that made him think of Mary Jane, or of his old friend Liz Allan. This woman was not one of them. She was dressed in a business suit, skirt down far past her knees, with a hat that fanned out a foot from her face, a lit cigarette between her lips and barely any makeup. It wouldn’t have been odd anywhere else, but at a Storm party the appearance of someone so businesslike was shocking.

Equally shocking, her blond hair and blue eyes and facial shape were all very familiar. Peter turned to see Johnny close at his back. Compared the faces. Yes.

“Hello,” he said. “My name’s Peter Parker. Your brother invited me to come over…to this party, I mean. Are you Ms. Storm?”

The woman stubbed out the cigarette on an ashtray. Then she smiled, and her smile was as warm as Johnny’s. Strangely human, coming from an Invisible Woman.

“Yes, I am. You can call me Sue if you like. I had hoped we would become friends.” She stood and walked over. “I apologize that I have not come to see you before. These days I tend to be something of a recluse. Business keeps me very busy.”

She offered Peter a hand. Peter shook it.

Friendly and hot. Why were all the villains in his life friendly and hot? (It was probably just the Storm family but it was still unfair.)

“I am glad to hear you’ve been making friends with Johnny. He can be a handful,” Sue said. “I hope you two continue to get along.” Looking at the door she said. “I’d like to speak to my brother alone for a minute, please.”

Peter backed away hastily. “Of course. Sorry. I’ll just be…” He hurried out the door.

It occurred to him once he reached the dance floor that he’d just left two gang bosses to conspire together, probably about crime, without staying to eavesdrop with his super hearing. He winced and picked up a glass of wine.

What the hell. It wasn’t illegal to drink it.

* * *

“Mary Jane?”

“Peter? Is this you? Oh my God, he shot you.”

“No…I was victim to a different kind of shot… Shit, there’s a reason this stuff is illegal. I will fucking…”

“You got drunk.”

“I drank three glasses. Mary Jane, is that common?”

“Oh my God, my law abiding best friend is a lightweight and he’s calling me with a hangover. This is the best day of my life.”

“Fuck… look, that’s not what I was calling you about.”

“It’s not? But it’s hilarious.”

“I met Sue Storm last night.”

* * *

On Tuesday morning Johnny knocked on Peter’s door bright and early. No note this time, no warning. Only a spoken invitation. “Get dressed. We’re going out.”

This was it. This was definitely how Peter was going to get murdered. On the plus side, he was wearing a nice suit and it might occur in a public location since they were going into town. And if Johnny shot him in the Fantasticar, he would get blood all over the upholstery. On purpose.

Johnny on the way into town kept up a constant monologue, oddly enough, about the Storm family’s history. Leaving out all the sketchy parts, of course, and making their fortune sound a lot more legitimate than it actually was. This was leading somewhere, and it couldn’t be anywhere good. Probably he was going to make another attempt at asking Peter to join his criminal organization—they needed reporters to keep their image positive, so it wasn’t such a long shot. Well, if he tried that he’d find himself in for a surprise.

They pulled up at a salon. O’Malley’s salon.

“Why are you taking me to a speakeasy at this time of day?” Peter asked.

Johnny squinted at him. “Why does a straitlaced guy like you know this is a speakeasy?”

Because he was a superhero and had regularly broken up brawls occurring in and near this location, but no matter how many times he reported it to the police they did absolutely nothing about it because they had connections with the mayor. Peter coughed. “Reporter.”

“Oh, right. Well, I thought we’d get a drink. Since you apparently drink now…”

“I thought I’d give it one try. It was terrible.” Peter shook his head. “Never again, Storm. Never again.”

“Well, come in. We’ll see if we can change your mind.”

Peter had never been inside a speakeasy strictly for recreation before. For a moment he was certain one of the staff—a waiter, a singer or even the manager—was going to recognize him and call him out: “This isn’t a paying customer, this is the Goddamn friendly neighbor Spider-Man!” But no one did. He supposed if the Torch didn’t recognize him, it probably meant no one would.

They ended up at a table with some man named Wolfsheim listening to a rant about how truly decent the Storm family was. When Wolfsheim left, Johnny said, “You know Wolfsheim rigged the 1919…”

“World Series, yes.”

“Reporters,” Johnny said with a sigh. “You can’t impress ‘em…Honestly, I’m shocked you never came to any of my parties before. All sorts of people do.”

“I’m a crime reporter.”

“All the more reason.”

“Well, I don’t have time.” Not with the responsibilities of being Spider-Man on top of his reporting on top of actually trying to keep his relationships together. He hadn’t seen Reed in a month, not to speak of his other, less close friends.

Johnny smiled. He touched Peter’s hand. “Well, you’ll make time from now on, won’t you?”

Even in civilian form, his hand was so warm, and he still smelled vaguely of chemical fire no matter how much cologne he was wearing to drown it out. Peter nodded, looking at the ground. “I mean, if you really want me to.”

“Well, we’re best friends now, right?”

“Sure,” Peter said. “Why not?”

He had betrayed Mary Jane. He picked up his drink—it was clear, it had to be water—but wrinkled his nose as he brought it near his mouth. It stank. “What even is this?”

Johnny laughed. “You have a lot to learn.”

There was dancing in a corner of the club and Johnny pulled Peter over before Wolfsheim got back. He tried to pair Peter with about three different girls but when Peter refused all of them he settled into dancing with Peter himself. Jitterbug. Foxtrot. Peter could do both parts, and so could Johnny. They switched back and forth. Johnny was always wanting to lead, but Peter didn’t let him get away with it. And he could tell that although Johnny grumbled, he liked that.

And then they were winding their way back out onto the streets. Peter insisted on driving, since Johnny was slightly tipsy. Somehow time had passed away, and the sun was beginning to set. It was a pity the buildings blocked out the view.

“If you hurry, we can watch it set from my dock over the water,” Johnny suggested. But with the traffic it was impossible to hurry. By the time they reached West Egg it was already dusk. But Johnny insisted on taking Peter over to the dock anyhow.

He sat down on the dock's edge, pulling Peter down with him. “This is usually more Sue’s thing,” he said. “But the view’s good, right?”

“It’s a lovely view.”

“Oh come on. You’re just looking at me, you can’t appreciate it. See how the ocean sparks with stars? It’s nice on nights like this, with no wind and the waves quiet.”

“Mm.”

“Now if we’d gotten here by sunset,” Johnny continued. “You would have seen the water on fire, which is really something.”

“Of course you like fire.”

“Is that supposed to imply something? I have no connections with the Torch.”

“I never said you did,” Peter said. “You know, I’ve taken pictures of the Torch fighting Spider-Man before.” With a camera that worked automatically from a distance. High technology and very pricey, but worth it.

“Really? I’ve never seen you there.”

“You’ve seen all the Torch and Spider-Man fights?”

Johnny cleared his throat. “Of course not. I feel like we’re getting a bit off topic.”

“What was the topic?”

“Beautiful night. Lovely day. New best friend. You’ve enjoyed yourself?”

“Sure.”

“And you’re impressed?”

“Sure.”

Johnny leaned towards Peter. “Look,” he said. “I know you don’t really like us Storms, or the fact that people say we’re bootleggers—which cannot be proved but is pretty widespread sooo… you know, but anyways I know you don’t really trust us with anything but I’ve been trying to prove to you that we’re okay people really. People you can trust.”

“Trust.”

“Yeah. We’re good to our friends. We’re financially stable. You could even say that were someone to get involved with one of us romantically…well, that would probably be okay. It might even be a good thing.”

Peter raised an eyebrow.

Was Johnny saying what he thought he was saying?

“Really,” Johnny said. He leaned in closer. “I mean, we’re both beautiful…very intelligent…”

Peter kissed him on the lips.

Johnny choked and fell over backwards. He seemed to be having trouble breathing. Worried, Peter pulled him up and checked his head—fine. Of course he was fine, he was the Torch. Falling over wasn’t going to hurt him.

“That,” Johnny said weakly. “What…”

And oh God, he’d just kissed a supervillain. But Johnny really had been very nice and he’d never really hated the Torch—not for real—and at least he’d never actually killed anyone, and to be fair Peter was probably drunk just off the fumes of that speakeasy so you couldn’t really say it was his fault…

“That wasn’t what I meant,” Johnny said.

Peter squinted at him.

“I mean, not that you aren’t good looking. I just…” He trailed off. “Shit. I didn’t…”

Peter got up and walked off the dock towards his own house. Vaguely he could hear Johnny calling after him. He ignored it.

Apparently Heaven had saved him from getting involved with a supervillain. It was probably for the best. He couldn't believe he'd let it get this far in the first place.

* * *

That Sunday, Peter stayed in. He was working at his desk when the knocking started. He ignored it for five minutes straight. And then, because he’d stupidly forgotten to lock it, Johnny Storm just opened the door and walked in regardless, blue suit and all.

“Are you here to murder me?” Peter asked, because he was sick of trying to guess.

“What? No! Why would I be trying to murder you?”

“Because you’re a bootlegger and I kissed you out of nowhere.”

Johnny paused. “Well, I’m not here to murder you. But you didn’t come to my party. You said you’d come from now on.”

“Seriously? You still want me there?”

“Well, yes.”

He had walked all the way in now. It had been raining outside and he was dripping on Peter’s carpet, making dirty footprints. Probably he was used to a cleaner taking care of those things. Peter didn’t have a cleaner.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said. “I’m not much of a party person.”

“You said you’d come.”

“I did some things last time I saw you that I regret…”

“No, no no no no no. Please. Don’t regret anything from the other day. I’m the one who should be sorry. I handled things with you very badly. I shouldn’t have…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I should have talked to you sooner. I didn’t know how to react.”

“What do you want?” Peter said.

“I wanted you to come over.”

“Your whole best friends schtick is ridiculous.”

“I was trying to impress you for Sue’s sake, okay? She wants you to ask that stupid guy who lives over in East Egg to come see her. Reed Richards. She wanted to make a good impression so you’d do it for her. I told her it was dumb.” He shrugged. “You don’t have to do it. She’ll find another connection. She’s very good at that.”

“Good,” Peter said. “I won’t.” If Reed wanted to get involved with a bunch of mobsters it was his own fault, but Peter wouldn’t be the one to bring him into this. It was bad enough that Peter himself was getting involved with the Storms in the first place.

He said as much to Johnny who slightly winced. More of a reaction than he’d given the first time Peter had accused him of bootlegging, or last night discussing the Torch.

“So I guess my good impression plan failed.”

“I guess so.”

“Fine then. Why the hell did you kiss me?”

Peter bit his lip. “I do stupid things sometimes. It doesn’t mean anything. I made a bad choice and you saved me from it.”

“So I’m good enough to kiss but you wouldn’t want to stay with me.”

“Why does that matter?”

“It doesn’t.”

They glared at each other. Peter said, “You seem a little hot under the collar, Johnny. Think you’re going to light on fire? Or…how do you put it…flame on?”

“Fuck you,” Johnny said. He turned to door and stepped out. Before slamming it closed he shouted, “If you come to any of my parties I’ll have you thrown out!”

“I don’t want to go to any of your parties!”

Peter spent the rest of the evening listening to music and yelling drift over from next door, inexplicably tense.

* * *

The next time Peter fought the Torch it was Saturday, almost a week later, and he didn’t have his special webbing or gloves with him. Because he’d originally been fighting the Rhino—an entirely different maniac, enforcer for an entirely different gang—and he hadn’t expected the Torch to show up midway through the fight, take Peter’s side and kick the Rhino’s ass.

With the Rhino slightly scorched and webbed to a wall, Peter turned to Johnny and asked, “What was all that about?”

“What? I don’t like the Rhino anymore than you do.”

It was true. The Rhino worked for the Osborn family and the Osborns and the Storms got along like…well, like a house on fire. Peter nodded but said, “You don’t like me either.”

“I don’t know, you got a friend of mine some red tulips the other day. Johnny Storm.”

Peter spluttered, “What?”

“The butler said a nice young man gave them to him but he didn’t recognize who it was. They’re very nice. I have it on good authority that Storm put them in his bedroom.”

“Those were…”

“A gift of enemy-ship, sure, whatever. I didn’t know you came to Storm’s parties.”

“I don’t.”

How come the butler hadn’t recognized Peter? It was lucky, of course—Johnny might not have written it off as a simple coincidence since as it was he had tied the matter back to Spider-Man. Still, it was a little humbling to know that the butler hadn’t remembered him when just the other night he had presented the same man with a personally written invitation, the only one sent by the Storms in who knew how long.

In any case, it was just his luck that Johnny would pick up on Spider-Man trying to flirt with him and still completely hate it coming from Peter Parker. Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t know they came from Peter—probably would have thrown them out. Or maybe it was bad, since it only led to more disappointment later. At least Johnny would have known.

Johnny said, “Okay. Well, they were nice tulips. I don’t like your insinuating that I actually am Johnny Storm, because that’s ridiculous and you have no evidence, but it was still a nice thought. If you’d like to say anything about them…”

Peter huffed. “You’re lucky I’m not trying to arrest you. Did you consider…”

His spider sense rang out in warning an instant before the shot. He shoved Johnny over and onto the ground. Heat seared at his body—his costume was flame resistant, but he knew he was getting burns. It was almost enough to distract him from the pain in his side, where he’d caught the bullet aimed at Johnny.

Johnny immediately pushed him off—thank God, since he wasn’t moving very quickly and the fire would have caught in a minute, flame resistant material or no. Peter got to his feet as well, swiveled to find the man holding the gun based on spider sense, and webbed the gun out of his hand. He handed it to Johnny, which was a stupid decision, handing a gun to a supervillain. But Johnny immediately melted it down, so maybe it wasn’t so stupid.

“Who are you?” Johnny yelled. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Preserving the peace against a supervillain?” Peter wondered. “I mean, he was aiming at you. This is an unfortunate side effect,” he said. One hand was clamped to his side. Constant pressure. Bullet wounds needed constant pressure.

“Shut up. Do you have a problem with the Storm family?”

The man yelled, “You slept with my goddamn wife and then murdered her, you monster!”

“Did you actually do that?” Peter said.

“No. Who do you think I am? Can you web this guy to a wall?”

“Sure.” Because for some reason he found he believed Johnny. The Torch had committed many crimes, but he wouldn’t sleep with a woman and then kill her.

“Right then,” Johnny said when Peter had webbed the gunman to the wall next to the Rhino. “Hospital? You seem like the type to appreciate privacy.”

“I’m good,” Peter said. He wasn’t good. He was beginning to lose blood. It had saturated the fabric at his side and on his glove. He would have to get home quick and do some basic first aid. “No, seriously,” he said, as the Torch turned off the flame on one arm briefly to support him. “I’m good.”

The arm not covered by flame was wearing blue skin-tight material. This information would be useful later.

“No, you got shot. That’s not good. You’re coming with me.”

* * *

From there, things got a little blurry.

Peter could remember arriving at the Storm mansion. He could remember ending up on a bed somewhere, and the smell of tulips mixing with the smell of alcohol, not wine or champagne but a sterilizer. He remembered that his shirt hurt coming off, and he remembered an anesthetic that made everything hazier than it already was. He remembered Johnny’s voice—the Torch’s voice, his neighbor’s voice, the voice of a man whose life he’d saved—conversing with another voice, masculine. A voice he knew but could not recognize as easily. He remembered that same voice, masculine, talking to another voice, feminine, while steady hands worked on his torso.

He thought he could remember some of the words, purely because they seemed so out of place in a sick room. This was a conversation that should have happened somewhere quieter and more romantic, maybe in a room full of flowers with the soft pitter-patter of rain in the background, or maybe on the dock staring out at a fire-touched ocean. Not here, with one participant bent over a half conscious masked man who was bleeding all over a light blue set of sheets, and with the sound of quiet moaning interrupting the conversation every few seconds.

“I was surprised when you called me.”

“You’re the best doctor I know. This was important to me. He saved Johnny’s life.”

“From what I’ve heard, he’s your enemy.”

“I’m not heartless.”

Pause. Voice, feminine: “After the war, you never got back in touch with me. After I sent you that last letter.”

“You said you were getting married.”

“I didn’t.”

“I thought you did.”

“Namor and I talked, and we decided it was better this way. We both rushed into it. We both would have had regrets.”

“I heard he wasn’t married. Then I heard you weren’t either. But it had been years. And you’re very different now.”

“Everyone changes.”

Pause. Voice, masculine: “I nearly worked myself to death trying to forget you.”

“You must be going to seed, having no one to make you sleep.”

“Do I look that bad?”

“No. You look fine. You look very handsome.”

Pause.

The fingers were putting on a bandage now, taping it to Peter’s skin. The bullet hole still hurt, but the pain only seemed half real. He could still smell the tulips over the coppery stench of blood. That was important, but he couldn’t remember why. Johnny. He’d bought the tulips for Johnny, but Johnny hadn’t understood.

He groaned. A hand touched his forehead and another soothingly stroked his hair. His Aunt May would have a heart attack if she found out about this. He’d have to not tell her about it and swear Mary Jane to secrecy. There was no keeping things like this from Mary Jane.

Voice, feminine: “I thought you might come to one of Johnny’s parties. Lots of people do.”

“Johnny doesn’t like me all that much.”

“He likes you enough. He worries that you’ll hurt me.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“I know it wasn’t on purpose.”

“I should have come to you.”

“I wouldn’t be offended if you wanted to keep away from what I’ve become. I had to talk to you first, let you know…”

Pause.

“I love you, Reed.”

The hand in Peter’s hair stilled. Peter grunted, and it continued to stroke.

“We should talk more later. I am busy here.”

“Yes. Later.”

Quietly, as high heels walked towards the door; voice, masculine:

“I love you, Sue.”

* * *

At some point Peter became more lucid, though he wasn’t sure how long it took. When he became aware of himself, he realized Johnny was sitting on the side of the bed, and had been for some time. Which—judging by the photograph on the bureau and the red tulips sitting on the armoire—was his right, since this appeared to be his room. Which begged the question of why he had left Peter in his bed for so long, but Peter decided he was just going to ignore that fact.

He said, “What time is it?”

Johnny said, “Four o’clock. It’s Sunday. You’ve been out of it nearly all day. Dr. Richards said it was miraculous that you recovered at the rate you did—your wound has almost closed up already. But you should stay in bed a while longer.”

“Sunday. Don’t you have a party to go to?”

“Party’s cancelled. Honestly, did you think I’d go to a party with you injured?”

Peter felt at his face. The mask was still there. Good. But on the other hand, that just made it weirder—Johnny Storm cancelling one of his famous parties to sit next to his archnemesis. Well, they weren’t really nemeses but they were something of the kind. Anyways, it was awkward.

Oh. Wait.

“Dr. Richards? You mean Dr. Reed Richards?”

“Yep. I guess he’s pretty well known. Brilliant guy, really…”

“Does this mean he and your sister are getting together?” Fuck. After he’d decided not to play matchmaker he’d somehow managed to get them together while half conscious.

Johnny stared at him. “Okay, exactly how much do you know about my life?”

“You’re famous,” Peter said. “And you’re the Torch. I keep an eye on you.”

Johnny crossed his arms. “For the record, we respected your privacy. We only lifted the bottom of your mask to give you water and a little broth… Richards said you needed sustenance. Also you can’t actually prove I’m the Torch.”

“Johnny, everyone knows that.”

“Plausible deniability.” He gestured towards the vase. “But again, thanks for the tulips. Not sure why you brought them incognito, but.”

“I brought them because I like you,” Peter said tiredly. “I wanted to give you something nice.”

“Really? You like me?”

“I just saved your life, so I think that much is obvious.”

Johnny shrugged. “You’re a superhero.”

“Sure, but I’m not suicidal. I wouldn’t take a bullet for just anyone.”

“So you like me.” Johnny leaned forward, face gleeful. “What exactly do you like?”

Peter sighed. “As the Torch, you cause a lot of property damage, but you and your gang kill less people than many other gangs, and I know you try to keep the peace as much as feasibly possible. As Johnny Storm, well… you’re friendly and extravagant with guests and people you like, you clearly care a lot about your sister, your jokes are hilarious and you’re really good looking.” Johnny was staring at him. “If you didn’t want an answer you shouldn’t have asked the question.”

“No, no,” Johnny said quickly. “I guess I didn’t expect that much? But I like you too. I mean, you help a lot of people even though you try to beat me up a lot, and I don’t know about your face but you have a good…” He gestured at Peter’s still-bare torso. “I mean, except for the bullet wound. Not that the bullet wound is unattractive, but it’s not good either? Anyways. You’re also attractive.”

“Trust me,” Peter said drily. “You wouldn’t like my face.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. You definitely wouldn’t be attracted to me if you could see my face.”

“Who said I was attracted to you now?”

“You just did.”

Johnny pondered that. “Hm. I guess I did.” He leaned back. “Not that that was ever really a secret. I’ve had girlfriends I’ve flirted with less than you.”

“As the Torch.”

“Fine. I’m the Torch. Good luck putting me in jail, though. Confession still isn’t evidence when you have no record except your own witness.”

“Putting you in jail is probably hopeless with the Storm name as powerful as it is,” Peter said. “I just don’t like you burning down buildings.”

“Hm.”

They sat in companionable silence for a minute before Johnny said, “So if you’re attracted to me and I’m attracted to you, there’s nothing really stopping us from just making out right now.”

“I have a bullet in my gut.”

“No you don’t. Richards took it out.”

“Bullet. Wound.”

“Come on, Spidey,” Johnny said with a pouting face. “One small kiss? All we have to do is pull up the edge of your mask.”

Peter considered it for a moment. Kissing a supervillain was still a bad life choice but taking a bullet for one was worse, and he’d already done that. Still, he had his pride.

“I’ll agree to kiss you,” he said. “But only if I take the mask off entirely, and you still agree then.”

Johnny said, “Wait, what? What about the whole secret identity thing?”

“I saved your life, you at least helped to save mine. Are you going to kill me or get me arrested?”

“No.”

Peter nodded. If Johnny had wanted him dead or in jail, this would have been the time—while he was unconscious and shot in the side. Maybe the Storm family didn’t want him dead after all, though it would take some time getting used to it. “Then if you’re going to kiss me, I’m taking off the mask.”

Johnny hesitated. Then, “Okay. I mean, it’s safe if you want to. I’ve always kind of wondered…” He licked his lips. “Go ahead.”

Peter took the mask off.

Johnny stared at him. “Peter.”

“Yep.”

“Oh my God. You look like shit. Like, I knew you were out of it but you seriously look awful. We can hold off the kissing if you want—I think Richards should have another look at you.”

“Reed doesn’t know who I am.”

“Wait, if you’re Peter… My sister was trying to get Spider-Man to act as her matchmaker.”

“I mean, it sort of worked.”

“I was trying to impress Spider-man so he would act as my sister’s matchmaker.”

“I mean, you definitely impressed me?”

“I danced with Spider-Man at a speakeasy,” Johnny breathed. “Oh my God. That means two weeks ago…I got Spider-Man drunk. I got Spider-Man drunk. This is a wonderful thing.”

“Are you going to kiss me or not?” Peter said impatiently. “I know you didn’t like it last time…”

“Because I barely knew you! And I sort of had a thing for Spider-Man but I guess that doesn’t matter anymore. Shit. You’re Peter Parker. You live next door. I’ve been living next door to Spider-Man for five months.”

“Johnny,” Peter said. “Either kiss me or don’t kiss me.”

And Johnny did.

* * *

“Mary Jane Watson speaking, how may I help you?”

“Oh hello. This is Johnny Storm. I was wondering if you could come over to the mansion today or tomorrow. Your friend Peter got shot and he’s been recuperating here. He’d appreciate visitors.”

“OH MY—”

**Author's Note:**

> Not entirely satisfied with this fic. I wrote it a year and a half ago, possibly more. Then I asked someone (??) to beta it, but never got around to editing it. Now, since it's been a year and a half and it seems unlikely it will ever be edited, I decided to post it. To the beta, I apologize. To whoever else reads this fic, I hope you enjoyed. This fic is entirely inspired by the fact that Tobey Maguire plays both Spider-Man and Nick Carraway, despite the fact that I've never watched the Maguire Spider-Man movies. So. Make of that what you will.  
> and I'd be happy to hear from you in the comments :)
> 
> Almosthello drew a sketch inspired by this story lately! It is here: https://twitter.com/firidus/status/1145705674019500032


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